


Heart-Shaped Bed

by Rosie-Wise (CerseiSassQueen)



Category: IT (1990), IT - Stephen King
Genre: 1950s, Biting, Blood and Gore, Character Death, Choking, Creampie, Daddy Issues, Dirty Talk, Domestic Violence, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Filthy, Foot Massage, Forced Orgasm, Humiliation, Hypnotism, Illusions, Immobility, Kidnapping, Married Life, Mind Control, Mind Manipulation, Penis In Vagina Sex, Pennywise (IT) Being an Asshole, Pennywise (IT) is His Own Warning, Pet Names, Rough Body Play, Rough Sex, Sexual Slavery, Stereotypes, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-11 02:01:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20145727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CerseiSassQueen/pseuds/Rosie-Wise
Summary: 'Just hold me through these lonely nightsWe'll have a blue wedding tonightHold me through these lonely nightsWe'll have a blue wedding tonightSo get the room with the heart shaped bedMake something gross feel romanticMake me so no one will ever want me again'Cause when I sleep with faith, I onlyFind a corpse in my arms on awakening...'





	1. To Sleep, Perchance To Dream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hotrockcandy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotrockcandy/gifts), [cuntoid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuntoid/gifts), [Bloody_Vixen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bloody_Vixen/gifts), [Ghospice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghospice/gifts), [SpoofieLady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpoofieLady/gifts).

> Hello beautiful sewer-babes! I'm back with more Papawise trash and a new name! Some of you might know me from my orphan-account Pennywise series 'My Funny Valentine' and its satellite works, or from around the fandom in general. I'm planning to upload more smut to this account from Tumblr etc when time allows, as well as new stuff, but for now please enjoy this little sin-song. Part two will be posted later tonight.
> 
> Lyrics in summary from 'Heart-Shaped Bed' by Nicole Dollanganger.

The apartment is warm-hued and cosy, if a little worn around the edges, the fixtures and fittings of the small kitchen-diner gleaming retro-chrome and pink. You lean against the counter, fiddling with the lid of the coffee pot, your eyes straying to the novelty Betty Boop clock over the stove; _ almost five...he'll be home soon… _

You blink, shaking your head and brushing stray crumbs from the countertop, trying to ignore the sudden swell of dizzy heat beneath your skin. It is an unnerving sensation, prickling behind your eyes and beading upon your brow in a clammy sheen of fresh sweat, making your knees tremble and your parched lips curl back from your teeth. Your gut is clenched, your insides churning, the blood rushing to your temples in a steady sickly rhythm to match the insistent tick-tock of the clock on the wall. He's coming, he'll be home soon, yes...but who _ is _ he and...and who are _ you _ for that matter? Is this home? _ Your _ home? You aren't entirely sure and you don't know if matters at all, standing here in the kitchenette with toasted crumbs on your fingers, your eyes drifting over the strangely familiar - _ and yet completely alien _ \- surroundings. The drapes are floral, the peachy linoleum scuffed in places but still polished to perfection. There is a print of the Brooklyn Bridge hanging beside a lurid pop art rendering of Audrey Hepburn in Paris, holding a bunch of balloons. _ Pink _ balloons, naturally, the colour standing out in bright contrast to its neighbour, the stark lines of the bridge picked out in black and white shadows. The place is cheap and cheerful, tasteless but inoffensive, the atmosphere heavy and close with the overbearing scent of some off-brand cleaning product. Lemon-fresh, acidic, sanitised, but not quite strong enough to mask the pungent odour of clogged drains and damp walls...of something old and cold and _ rotten_... 

Dusting your fingers off, feeling vaguely repulsed for no reason at all, you look down at yourself, quietly contemplating what you see; fluffy slippers, bare ankles, a satin rose-gold negligee and a clean cotton pinny tied around your waist, with frills at the hem and neck. You raise your hands to your head, bemused by the tightly wound curls of your hair, the soft-bristled rollers crowning your scalp like a tacky halo. _ Cute_, you think, an absent-minded smile twitching at your lips, your thoughts hazy and distant. A flutter of giddy excitement roils in your abdomen like so many butterflies when you look up at the clock again. _ Five on the dot. _Behind you, beyond the kitchenette and the fussy old-fashioned lounge, there is a telltale rattle of chains and the smooth click of a bolt as the front door swings open, stiff hinges protesting with a low groaning creak. The sound floods your mind, drowning out the muddy haze of your thoughts; it all makes sense now, the focus of your very existence waning to this moment with an uncomplicated clarity that is both soothing and disconcerting...

**"Honey, I'm home."**

Your body thrums to life, a vibrant frisson of delicious warmth pooling between your legs, in the deep cradle of your pelvis, emanating from your core and tingling in your extremities. You move around the kitchen like a tired old puppet given new purpose, dancing from a set of fresh strings, your mind devoid of anything else but _him_, that voice, as you perform your tedious little tasks with the dogged familiarity of a well-trained housewife. _Ira Levin, eat your heart out. Stepford's got nothing on Derry. _You frown at the intrusive thought, banishing it as you focus on your busy hands. Wiping down the countertop, setting the oven to pre-heat, checking the meal rota pinned to the refrigerator under the chipped ceramic of a Paul Bunyan magnet. The date evades your memory as you scan the list, but before you can think to consult the calendar, you are jolted into reality by the unexpected weight of two large hands against your hips, strong fingers gloved in white silk squeezing at your flesh as you let out a squeak, surprised and delighted all at once. Cherry lips brush against the shell of your ear from behind, that rough-edged husky voice setting your knees to trembling beneath the hem of your negligee, **"Tuesday is meatloaf, babydoll...but what's say we just skip it tonight and have dessert instead, hmmm?" **You huff out a sweet little sigh, wriggling like a puppy, your hips squirming within your master's grasp as you rock back on your heels against his solid bulk, **"Ahhh...yes ****_please_****, Papa…" **He chuckles at your neediness, nipping at the corner of your jaw and nuzzling the nape of your neck, his breath warm against your skin, **"Good girl, that's what I like to hear. Ohhh, Papa's been hankerin' for a taste of that ****_sweet_** **_cherry_** **_pie_** **all day…" **Those powerful hands pivot you in place, turning you on the spot, and you let out a fractured moan at the sight of him looming over you, red and white and sunflower-yellow, garishly loud in the muted pastel glow of the kitchen. Your mind registers nothing but pleasure, not even dull surprise, when faced with the clown in his bright glory. _Because this is completely normal_, you tell yourself, stubbornly dismissing the shadows of doubt lingering at the boundaries of your consciousness. Nothing out of the ordinary here. He is your old man, your _husband_, the clown of your dreams…

**"Tell ya what, princess, you just finish up in here and let Papa get settled in, and then I'm all yours." ** Trapped between the refrigerator and Papa's imposing figure, you can only nod in quiet agreement and gaze up at him with slavish adoration in your eyes, feeling small and soft when he raises a hand to tweak your nose with playful fondness. Its twin pets at your hip, lulling you with tenderness before he pinches lustily at your backside, his crimson lips stretching into a toothy grin when you squirm under his teasing ministrations. He pulls away after a long moment, leaving you breathless and boneless, tipping you a jaunty wink as he ambles into the lounge, **"Don't take too long, baby...oh, and grab me a beer while you're at it...runnin' this town is thirsty work." ** You watch, wary and awestruck all at once, as he sinks back into the battered embrace of a sagging old armchair, his eyes closed and his breath coming in a deep rumbling exhale, a parody of tired bones and creaking joints. _ Old faker,_ you think, rolling your eyes and quickly scanning the kitchen for anything out of place. _ Nope. _ All that is left to do is turn off the stove, and then you duck into the refrigerator for Papa's beer, before following him into the lounge and setting the chill-damp can down atop the little table at his elbow. Only when you instinctively sink to your knees on the threadbare carpet, your fingers working at his shoelaces, does the clown deign to acknowledge your presence, the gleam of his bright blue eyes barely visible beneath heavy lids as he lets out a grunt in lazy appreciation of your efforts. Patient and diligent in this task as in all others, you loosen the knots, easing his feet out of his shoes and up on to the propped footrest, one after the other, smiling at those - _ frankly ridiculous _ \- orange socks as you begin to massage him. _ For a clown, he sure does have the cutest little feet, _ you muse, kneading and rubbing at his insteps, his toes, your heart skipping a beat when he praises you with crooning words and the gentle pressure of his fingers rumpling and tugging at your hair, **"****_Mmmm._****..feels so good, babydoll...you got the magic touch, you know that? So ** ** _fucking_ ** ** good." ** He lets you dote and fawn over him for a little while longer as he unravels your curlers to let your hair fluff out around your face, before summoning you up on to his lap with a click of his fingers, your body and mind hardwired to submit to him and obey. You snuggle into his chest with a grateful sigh, breathing in his scent; fairground treats, cigar smoke, and rampant male musk. Nosing at your hair, his big hands wandering over your body at a deceptively languid pace, palming the swell of your breasts, he seems just as content with his lot in life as you are, and his obvious affection for you sends a thrill of dizzy warmth shuddering through your very soul. _ So lucky,_ you think, curling your fingers against his shoulders, clinging to him and rutting your backside into the heavy jut of his cock, _ So lucky to be his… _

**"Did you miss me, baby?" ** The clown squeezes your breasts, humming against your hairline, peppering your brow with kisses, his chest rumbling with easy laughter when you mewl and paw at him like an eager-to-please puppy, **"Yeah, I ** ** _know_ ** ** you did...Papa missed you too, honey...but damn, it's worth it just to come home to ** ** _this. _****My sweet little wife, all pent-up and needy, so fucking hot for her old man's cock." ** You whimper in agreement, willingly abasing yourself for him, rolling your hips back and forth, humping down over his lap in a desperate attempt to spark a little friction between your thighs. He chuckles roughly, reaching down with one hand to swat at your ass and smirking when you let out a yelp at the stinging blow, **"Shhhh, settle down, babydoll...where's the fire? Just sit pretty there and let Papa enjoy how ** ** _nice_ ** ** you feel on his lap. ** ** _Mmmmm_****. So soft and warm..." ** He pinches your cheek, more amused than irritated by your sullen expression, and then he reaches over for his beer, the tab popping under the pressure of his gloved grip, froth fizzing to the surface with a metallic hiss. Leaning back, he swaps the can into the other hand in order to press the pad of his thumb against your mouth for you to suckle at, purring his approval when your lips yield around the beer-damp silk without hesitation. He watches as you mouth at his thumb, those eerie blue eyes drifting from your face to the exposed lines of your throat with predatory intent, before he takes a deep slug from the can and rolls his broad shoulders against the back of the chair, **"So, how was your day? Reckon you've been gettin' up to some real ** ** _mischief_ ** ** here on your lonesome while poor old Papa slogs his guts out to bring home the bacon…" **

You pull back from his hand, his thumb sliding free with a wet _ pop _ to hook under your chin, your eyes downcast as you quiver under his probing gaze, **"N-nuh...no, Papa...no mischief, honest. Just housework…" ** It's the truth, as far as you're concerned; in fact, you have no memory at all of anything that happened before you looked up at the clock at quarter to five. The realisation is disconcerting, as though you exist only as a figment of his imagination, like a pretty mannequin frozen in time until he returns to fill your sepia-toned world with colour and light. The clown beams at you, grasping your jaw to give your head a teasing shake, **"That's my girl." ** He sets the can aside and curls his hands under your backside, lifting you up and rising from the chair, the sudden jolt of motion bringing a squeak from your parted lips as you curl your arms around his shoulders for balance, **"C'mon...let's you and me have an early night…" **

Peering up at him, you offer up a shy smile, dipping your head against his ruffled collar as he moves into the bedroom, **"Are you tired, Papa?" ** Your voice is carefully innocent, your eyes soft with yearning heat, veiled by the demure sweep of your lashes, and he lets out a boisterous chuckle in response, one hand inching beneath your negligee, fingertips tracing the downy seam of your cleft, **"Who said anything about ** ** _sleeping_****, babydoll? I'm ready for a slice of that pie…" ** He carries you across the threshold and kicks the door shut, the gloomy walls of the room immediately flaring with candlelight at his presence, illuminating the heart-shaped bed with its pastel-pink sheets and gossamer canopy. Setting you down upon the mattress with surprising tenderness, as though you are some fragile little china-doll, his fresh porcelain-shelled bride, he favours you with a wolfish grin, planting both hands upon your thighs and spreading you open with the firm press of his palms. The hem of your negligee rides up as he hooks his fingers around your knees, folding you like origami, bending and moulding your pliant body at a whim, baring your limbs and the glistening wet heat of your core for his hungry gaze,**_ "Ohhhh_****, such a pretty thing, such a pretty ** ** _cunt._**** So fuckin' ** ** _slick_ ** ** for me, inside and out. I just wanna ** ** _eat you up,_**** little girl." ** You shiver at the intensity of his gaze, the roughness of his voice, your toes curling deliciously when he kneels between your legs and dips his head to _ sniff _ at you, rubbing his smooth white cheek over your thigh and probing a hot stripe against your skin with his wet tongue, **"Papa's slutty little clown-wife...all mine, all for Pennywise…" ** Your fingers are balled into tight fists, plucking fitfully at the sheets, but you raise a tentative hand to his head now, stroking his wild red mane and marvelling at its softness. Emboldened by his attentions, you tug at him, burying your fingers in his hair, trying to coax him _ closer _ as you tilt your hips up to meet his face. Hot breath ghosts over your sex as he snarls up at you, those otherworldly eyes gleaming like dying stars in a distant galaxy, his face framed by your quivering thighs, **"Gettin' a little too big for your boots there, sweetheart." ** He covers you, crushing you under his bulk before you can blink, his hands curling around your wrists and pinning your arms to the bed as he grinds over your helpless form. Growling, he nips at your earlobe and grunts filthy promises, rutting the bulge of his swollen cock against your cunt like a dog mounting his favourite bitch and humping her into submission. Greedily devouring your whimpering moans, the soft cradle of your thighs yielding around his hips as though it is his due, your dowry paid in homage to him, only ever _ him._..

**"Startin' to think I've been too soft with you, baby…can't have you taking advantage of Papa, now can we? Gonna have to straighten you out, good and proper. Put you over my knee and give you a few licks with my belt…" **You mewl piteously, begging for mercy with wide tearful eyes, shaking your head even as your cunt gushes over at the thought of him _beating_ you, lashing your ass with his leather belt until your skin is raw with welts. Closing a hand over your throat, he squeezes down, the pressure bringing a choked cry to your lips as dizzying white-hot stars dance behind your eyelids. The clown hisses in your ear, his words punctuated by the flex of his fingers and the thrusting grind of his cock over your mound, **"Love me, honour me, ****_obey_**** me…" **Over and over again, he sears the vows into your waning consciousness, and then finally, just as you are about to pass out, he relents and draws back, sitting up between your legs and stroking his hands down over your body in a lazy caress. You shudder and twitch, blinking red-black shadows from your vision, hot tears spilling over your cheeks as you gasp for air and he pets you with absent-minded affection, **"Ohhh, but Papa wouldn't ****_really_**** hurt you, baby...I could never ****_ever_**** hurt my ****_good_** **_girl_****, my sugar and spice and ****_everything_** **_nice_**** girl…" **He croons your name, sickly sweet and almost gentle, so handsome and tender that your eyes sheen over with fresh tears when you look at him, your lungs burning and your heart throbbing painfully against your heaving ribcage, **"Papa...need you...oh, ****_please_****…" **

He chuckles, covering you again, his suit coming apart at the seams with the telltale _ pop-pop _ of tiny buttons, the obscene weight of his swollen cockhead smacking down against your sex with a meaty _ slap _ of flesh, **"Shhh, baby...Papa's gonna take care of you now…gonna take such good care of my perfect little wife..." ** You barely have a moment to adjust and recover your composure, let alone to enjoy the gorgeous friction of his thick shaft rubbing against your sweet spots, before he curls a gloved hand around his cock and lines himself up, smearing his length with your slick. His hips roll forward and he slides home, balls-deep, filling you up in one stroke, the sensation hitting you like a freight train, your arousal brimming over and coiling in your guts until something _ shatters _ and then _ you _ shatter, screaming for him and grasping his shoulders as you cum. The clown savours it, your first climax of the evening, the first of _ dozens, _your cunt milking his cock with tight spasms, coating his shaft in warm slick without him even breaking a sweat to wring it out of you. Bucking his hips, he favours you with a shit-eating grin, smug and self-satisfied. 

**"Saddle up, babydoll. It's gonna be a long night." **


	2. And When I Wak'd, I Cried To Dream Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS NASTY SHIT.
> 
> BE WARNED.
> 
> LIKE, SERIOUSLY. READER CHARACTER/YOU IS NOT GETTING OUT OF THIS ALIVE.

She looks like a painting, like an enchanted princess trapped within the foxed pages of some old fairytale, smooth and soft in tranquil repose; Ophelia, drifting downstream, her hands folded over her lap, dreaming or dying or somewhere in between. _ Floating._ Always and forever, for as long as the clown wills it. Blind and barely breathing, her eyes wide open, staring but sightless, fragile lids quivering, an eerie light glowing in the depths of her vision and lending her gaze a stark and searing loveliness that is completely alien to any mortal creature on this wretched plane. Her hair fans out across the mattress, unkempt and matted with dirt, with drying blood and the decaying red-brown skeletons of gutter-leaves. A fitting crown for his sleeping beauty. 

The young woman had been sleeping when Pennywise claimed her, vulnerable and blissfully ignorant of her monstrous suitor, the beast stalking her, creeping closer to her bed every night, one careful step at a time. Oh yes, closer and _ closer_, until he finally _ pounced_, and it was too late for a reprieve by then; all she could do was scream into the firm press of his silken palm, as helpless as a fly in the clever old spider's web. It took no effort on his part at all to pluck her out of bed and spirit her squirming body down into the sewers...to hold her, keep her, have her as many times as her body could stand to suffer him, begging for him to stop and pleading for _ more _ in the same breathless voice. Soft girl, sweet girl, satisfying his need for warm wet womanly holes and fearful worship, an altogether different craving than his usual hungers but just as pressing in its own right. Reluctantly feeding his ego and milking his cock, spread open and whimpering as he took his pound of flesh, over and over again.

As with all earthly pleasures, the novelty soon wore thin. It was always fun to bend his pets into shape, to _break_ them, to mould them into perfect receptacles for his perversions...but he wanted _ honey _ and she was all vinegar, resentful and bittersweet, like the taste of her tears, the acidic sting of her sadness making his lips curl back and his ichor-black blood _ boil_. She had fought too hard, cried too loudly, and spat her weak venom at him once too often. Stupid, stubborn little girl. Too dumb to keep, too pretty to waste. He is spiteful, cold and cruel in his nature, but he has learned the virtue of patience over many eons, over time immeasurable by human comprehension. Patience, prudence, and the value of mercy, if only to serve his own selfish ends. A hollow mercy, certainly, but infinitely preferable to the alternative. Or is it? Perhaps not. Perhaps she would condemn this parody of existence as a _ fate worse than death,_ spurning him and begging for sweet oblivion with the melodramatic nihilism of youth, the arrogance of her short-lived insectile species. Pennywise doesn't care. The choice was _ his,_ and she has no agency here, no power over her own miserable life. His younger counterpart would have slain her without a second thought when he grew bored of her whining, unsentimental and greedy, like a spoiled brat with too many toys. Snapped her neck and moved on to the next victim, as had been his habit for centuries. But the old clown is wily and frugal, too set in his ways and long in the tooth for such messy games. Never look a gift horse in the mouth, they say, and he isn't about to squander precious time and energy chasing down something he already has at home; a nicely broken-in cunt. And so here she is, frozen in time, trapped in the moment, mindlessly floating in the swirling citrine glow of his deadlights. She cannot deny him now, no more than she could deny herself, the instinctive pull of her primitive lizard-brain. She is crawling in the primordial soup, beautiful and bovine, lost in the hazy fog projected into her consciousness by the flaring orange-heat of his eyes. He can do as he pleases, use her at his leisure, abase and abuse her, drag her at his heel into depravities beyond reckoning, like a leashed bitch or a cow with a ring hooked through her nose. A limp little ragdoll, loose-limbed and drooling, sprawled out over the fetid old mattress, so very soft and pliant…

And so _ easy _ too! Her mind is delightfully receptive, yielding for his illusions with just a little coaxing, the petals of her body unfurling for him - _ his cock, his fingers, his tongue _ \- as he cultivates her, blowing smoke-dreams into her fractured thoughts. Pennywise ploughs furrows into every inch of this conquered land, sinking deep and firm. The soil is so _ ripe,_ so rich with yearning and promise, that he need only plant his seed there and watch it grow, snaring her within its tendrils and choking the last vestiges of resistance. 

_** "Beautiful girl."** _ He murmurs against her ear, in his starring role as her dream-clown, gleefully acting out his part in the pink mirage of her fantasy, **_ "My perfect wife." _** The girl on the heart-shaped bed moans for him, rutting up to meet his jackhammer hips, gamely riding out his violent thrusts with sweet little shudders...the girl on the mattress is silent, deathly still beneath his bulk, but her cunt squeezes him just _ right, _just as tight and hot and wet in real life as it feels in that pretty dreamscape world. It is as though he is fucking her twice over, in two separate realms, and he luxuriates in his victory, in the mirror-reflection of tender lies and the brutal truth. Curling taloned hands under his dolly's sleep-heavy thighs, lifting her ass from the mattress, he slams into her, hard and deep, the pressure of his violent thrusts jolting her limp body into motion, her breasts bouncing with each stroke, her head lolling back as he snarls and salivates against her bruised throat. Now this is _ fun,_ this is a real _ hoot_, he thinks, nose flaring at the corners to savour the pungent flavour of her scent, the heady perfume of her raw well-fucked holes, his seed dripping from her body to stain the filthy mattress. 

**"Slutty little cumdump,"** Pennywise growls, sinking his fangs into her shoulder, tearing strips from her flesh, his hips juddering, his eyes rolling back into his skull at the taste of her blood on his palette. The undead girl twitches beneath him, corpse-cold but for the slick heat of her cunt, her body warming his cock...and on another plane, his dream-wife gasps, curling herself around her handsome clown as he brushes his lips against her shoulder in a gentle kiss, **_ "So good...such a good girl for Papa…" _** Her skin is unblemished and unbloodied in this sweet world, but he can still taste her metallic zest in his mouth, and it takes every ounce of control to keep from biting down and tainting her fantasy with his vicious hunger. He holds it together, contenting himself with the truth while stringing her along, cooing her name as she returns his kisses with affectionate desperation, her voice kitten-soft and tentative,** _ "Is this...is this real, Papa?" _**

He can feel her mind straining, fighting his hold over her even as she melts around his cock, and he rasps out a guttural snarl into the empty chamber, feeling the sudden weight of exhaustion in his form, his season aboveground counted in days now, rather than months. The time to hunt and feast is almost done, and soon he must rest...but first he will feed, he will glut himself upon this sweetmeat, one last meal, and carry the memory of her warmth throughout his hibernation. Body, mind, and soul, she is coming apart at the seams, breaking down under the relentless grinding pressure of his deadlights. She won't last much longer, and neither will he, and all good things must come to an end. Better to take her now, when she is still whole, when her blood is singing and thrumming, spiked and salted with the heady adrenaline-rush of terror, her cunt flexing and squeezing around his cock as she cums for him. Purring, allowing her muscles to milk his essence out into her womb with tight rippling spasms, he cups her face between his hands, tracing the tense apples of her cheekbones with silk-lined thumbs, **_ "It's as real as you want it to be, babydoll." _**

He brings her home, into the charnel-house beneath Derry, hooking his claws beneath her ribs, his eyes flaring with alien light, melting the ice from her mind, drinking her in, savouring the delicious twisting spasms of her face as she comes to life with a shuddering gasp. Heaving and sobbing, misty-eyed with pain, she blinks up at him, so beautifully bemused by this sting in the tale, her voice hoarse and raw, **"P-Papa? Papa, I don't...don't understand…"** She raises her hands to him, trembling, clutching his shoulders, as weak as a newborn babe, clinging to the tattered shreds of an illusion that is more real and beautiful than her own life. 

_ Poor thing, poor little husk. She is an empty shell of humanity, dead and done and drained, even if she doesn't quite realise it yet. _

Pennywise favours her with an indulgent smile, all bloody saliva and cannibal teeth, and then he blesses her with a final kiss, his breath ghosting against the hollow of her throat, hot and dank. He needles her pulse with his tongue, loving the way her breath hitches, his cock throbbing in tandem with her racing heart, still buried to the hilt in her cunt...and then he _ bites,_ opening his jaws around her throat and snapping down, sinking his fangs into her flesh. He feeds, rutting over her, filling her body with his fertile seed as he drains her blood, pouring himself into her even as he drinks away her life. Slowly, she begins to weaken, her limbs flailing, her insides twitching, her fitful struggle for survival giving way to death throes. Her pulse flutters, once, twice, and then all is still, and he tears out her throat with a rumbling growl of pleasure, his maw splattered with gore, his claws digging deep into the viscera of her abdomen. He watches the light leave her gaze - no longer _ his _ glorious light, unfortunately, merely the sickly sparkle of humanity - and the old clown fancies that he can see himself reflected there, in the wet glaze of tears, a mirrored image within that frozen accusatory glint of betrayal; a carnival kaleidoscope, a butterfly trapped in crystal-clear resin. _ So pretty. _

The viscous creamy mess of his seed paints her cunt and her thighs when he slides free, just as pretty as her eyes, and he settles back to enjoy the sight, lighting a cigar and stroking her cooling flesh. If only he had more time, he might have kept her for a little while longer, if only for the pleasure of breeding her with his spawn. But Pennywise is not a creature for whom regret has any real sting, and besides, there is always next cycle. He can only hope to reap such a worthy harvest at the next turn of twenty-seven years. 

Another pretty little bitch-wife to warm his bed and whelp his brood, and bleed out in his claws like a sacrificial lamb. 


End file.
